


Symphony

by rainbowbaz



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comedy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Music, Orchestra, Pining, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainbowbaz/pseuds/rainbowbaz
Summary: The Watford Orchestra has always been Baz's one true escape from the annoyance that is Simon Snow - and due to his passion for music, he has finally been given his first-ever solo violin piece. Yet this all shatters away when Snow shows up one day, ridiculously declaring that he needs to join the Orchestra to play the triangle... and Baz soon finds that when Snow is watching him, the combination of his electrifying gaze and Baz's own feelings makes it terribly difficult to play.





	Symphony

The agreement was made on a whim, one night as Penny and Simon sat in the library, illuminated only by candlelight.

“Crowley, Penny,” Simon complained, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands in exasperation. “I’m going to fail Magic Words. It’s official. I’m doomed. Miss Possibelf is going to _hate_ me.” 

Penny rolled her eyes, putting down her stack of flashcards. It became clear that Simon was done with last-minute cramming for the night. “Simon, you’re not going to fail. You’re going to be _great._ Go and get some rest.”

He shook his head stubbornly in response, curls bouncing from side to side. _“No,_ Penny, you just don’t get it. I’m actually going to fail.” Peeking through his fingers at her, his eyes widened. “What actually _happens_ if I fail? What do I do? I really need to pass this year, Penny, it’s the most important –”

“Tell you what,” Penny interrupts, causing Simon to remove his hands from his face in curiosity, leaning towards her. “Let’s make a deal. If you fail the exam, _which you won’t,_ you have to join the Watford Orchestra.”

Simon’s eyes widen even further, until they look like they are going to pop out of their sockets. _“What?_ No, no, _no,_ Penny, I couldn’t do that. I can’t even play an instrument, and _Baz_ is there, and –”

 _“Exactly._ It would be your worst nightmare. Which should give you some motivation to pass this exam. Besides, if you did fail, you would need the extra credit anyway,” Penny smirks, outstretching her hand to prompt a handshake. “Deal?”

“Crowley, when did you become such a plotter? You’re turning into Baz,” Simon scoffed, yet still met Penny’s hand, giving it a firm shake. “Deal.”

\----------

Baz lets out an audible sigh of relief as he picks up his violin, allowing it to nestle into the familiar space between his chin and shoulders as he raises his bow, waiting for his cue. This is his moment – ever since first year, the Watford Orchestra has been his safe space, the _one place_ where he can be vulnerable. And now, for the first time in all of his Watford career, he is finally being given a solo. It’s his chance to prove himself, to pour everything into his final performance. To allow his emotions to pour through the strings. _This is it._

Ms Rosalind, the school conductor, lifts her hands to cue him in, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut, as he presses his bow to the strings, beginning to feel the vibrato through his fingers, and – 

_Bang._ The doors of the music hall are thrown open, and the moment is lost. Baz’s eyes snap open in irritation at being interrupted – only to see a dishevelled Simon Snow, panting as if having run a marathon, with curls wild atop his head. Baz’s stomach twists in resentment. What is _he_ doing here?

Baz briefly wonders if Snow has come to spy on him – he’s spent countless nights attempting to hide from the idiot in the Catacombs. But never in Baz’s eight years of being at Watford has Snow invaded his safe space. In fact, he’s not sure if Snow even _knows_ about his love for Orchestra – he probably thinks that Baz disappears to some dungeon after lessons, to plot Snow’s demise. (Snow’s expectations of him have always been ridiculous.) 

His sudden appearance in the music hall suddenly makes Baz feel insecure, and exposed, and completely _bare._ He doesn’t want Snow to see his vulnerabilities. He can’t _afford_ for that to happen – it’ll ruin his entire image.

As an instantaneous reaction, Baz raises his chin, in his usual challenging posture, narrowing his eyes at Snow.

“Oh, uh…” Simon mutters, stumbling towards Ms Rosalind in a manner so ungraceful that it makes Baz cringe. “Sorry for interrupting, Ms Rosalind. I was just wondering… can I join the Orchestra?”

Baz feels as if he has been punched directly in the stomach. Snow… in _Orchestra?_

There’s no way that Baz can escape from him now. He’s everywhere he goes. He invades his dormitory, his space, his football practice, his trips to the Catacombs, his _brain;_ Crowley, even his _heart_ – and now he’s invading the Orchestra. How is he supposed to process the intensity of his feelings when Snow is _constantly_ in his presence? Baz can barely even concentrate when he can smell him from fifty feet away… _bacon and cinnamon rolls and a hint of fire…_ he’s _intoxicating._ It makes him overwhelmed.

“Well, Simon Snow,” Ms Rosalind begins, sizing Snow up as he lingers awkwardly in front of the ensemble. “I never thought that I would see you grace these halls.”

 _“Grace_ isn’t exactly the word I would use when seeking to describe Snow,” Baz interrupts, his voice piercing through the quiet hall like a sharp blade of ice, and he hates himself for it. He isn’t usually _cruel_ when he’s at Orchestra. Snow’s been here for mere seconds, and he’s already brought Baz’s guard right back up.

Ms Rosalind gives Baz a disapproving look, yet he could swear that’s there’s a twinkle in her eye as she turns back to Snow. “But, of course you can join our wonderful ensemble. Which instrument do you play?”

“Oh… I, uh…” Snow shuffles from foot to foot, staring at the ground. “I don’t.”

“You _don’t?”_ She narrows her eyes, as if struggling to understand him.

“I don’t play an instrument.”

The ensemble collectively huffs in amusement, supressed laughter rippling throughout the hall. Snow blushes in embarrassment, red as fire, and Baz desperately tries not to feel sorry for him.

“Well, Simon… why on _earth_ would you attempt to join the Orchestra if you can’t play?” Ms Rosalind asks, in a mixture of amusement and curiosity. The ensemble grow silent, waiting for Snow’s response.

Baz almost expects Snow to say something completely ridiculous, like _“to keep an eye on Baz’s plotting”,_ or even worse, _“so that I can serenade Agatha”._ Yet Snow’s eyes remain fixed to the floor, and his muttered response is so _honest_ that Baz is almost taken aback.

“I failed Magic Words, and I really need the extra credit. I’ll do anything… Crowley, I’ll even play the _triangle_ if I have to.” At his last few words, Snow raises his head, looking directly into Ms Rosalind’s eyes. He looks like a puppy; so cute and _sad_ that even Baz can’t generate an appropriate cutting remark, and instead just stands there, with his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish.

Ms Rosalind lets out a chuckle, which is almost fond, as if Snow is endearing. It makes Baz roll his eyes so much that it hurts. “You seem to underestimate the triangle, Simon. In many symphonies, it can be an incredibly complicated element of percussion.” Snow opens his mouth, as if trying to apologise, but Ms Rosalind silences him with her commanding presence. “However, luckily for you, our current piece requires only a couple of dings here and there. So, as long as you’re willing to concentrate and take this seriously, you can be in the Orchestra.”

Baz’s eyes widen. She’s _actually_ letting him in? It seems unjust… Baz has had to work _so bloody hard_ to be where he is, practicing at every moment he has a chance – yet Snow can just waltz into the Orchestra as if he owns the place. It makes him rage. Stupid Snow and his annoyingly magnetic personality and his pretty face and his –

Snow brushes past him on his way to the back of the hall, clutching his triangle so tightly that his knuckles are bright white. Baz narrows his eyes at him, out of habit, and fails to hold back a sneered remark. “This must be a career breakthrough for you, Snow. You’re so useless at magic, perhaps your one true talent will be found playing the _triangle.”_

He barely reacts, which causes an ill feeling in Baz’s gut. He hates it when Snow makes him feel guilty – they have to be on an equal level of mutual hatred for Baz’s emotions to be balanced. Yet any trace of regret is soon replaced by anger, as Baz hears the obnoxiously loud turning of pages from behind him, interrupting the sacred silence of the hall.

“Um, Miss?” Snow asks, carelessly waving his sheet music in the air. “How do I read this?”

With those words, Baz’s potential of performing his solo evaporates. Because once again, Snow is ripping any attention away from him, because _he’s_ the glorious, hilarious, enigmatic _Chosen One._

In one swift movement, Baz grabs his violin, wordlessly walking straight out of the room, and slamming the door behind him with as much force as he can muster. 

He can’t quite believe it. Snow interrupting his _first-ever_ rehearsal of his _first-ever_ solo was enough to make him resent the very sight of him – but then he dares to join the Orchestra with his stark absence of musical talent. Baz feels as if he is going to boil over. He has been playing the violin since he was four, without any sort of magical assistance – it may have been songs like ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’, but that’s not the point – and has been fluent in sheet music since the age of seven. Yet Snow _still_ has the nerve to interrupt him, tainting the very thing he has worked _so hard_ for… what a _joke._

He can already tell that the next term is going to make Snow’s presence even more suffocating than it was before. As he storms back up to his dormitory, he silently wishes that he was able to hate Snow.

But he can’t. All he can do is love him. 

(And it makes everything so much more difficult.)

\----------

To Baz’s distain as he walks into rehearsal, he finds out that his solo has been pushed back until the next practice, so that Snow can have a chance at rehearsing his triangle during the ensemble. Despite his obvious annoyance, he knows that Snow will be watching him – probably to examine whether he is plotting whilst playing the violin – and it gives him an air of cockiness. His ensemble playing is flawless, and he knows it. And sometimes it can feel good to intimidate the enemy.

(And there’s also the fact that Baz wants to consume Snow’s thoughts so that there’s some sort of mutual feeling. Sometimes, he just _has_ to catch Snow’s attention.)

After the piano opening, Snow _actually remembers_ his cue to play the triangle. It’s almost a bloody miracle, which makes the high-pitched shrill of his instrument even more aggravating to Baz’s ears. Part of him wants to force Snow to quit – his mind is already straying far too much from the music in front of him.

But while Snow is here, Baz may as well have a little fun. At the sound of his cue, Baz raises his bow, and as he lets it touches the strings, he can feel Snow’s eyes burning a hole into his back. 

And it’s _magic._

He thrives from the buzz, as if the edges of Snow’s magic are making him tipsy. As he plays, his fear of vulnerability melts away – he allows his eyes to flutter shut, and he relaxes into the pure _romance_ of the music. Something about the feeling of Snow’s gaze allows him to feel everything so much more – the weight of the strings pressing into his fingers, the vibrato cascading through his neck, his heart rising into his throat during the highest notes. His resentment fades away, and is replaced by motivation. He wants to impress Snow – he’s tired of being a storybook villain, ruining the Chosen One’s life. He wants more than that. He wants Snow to witness his talent.

The music stops, and Baz opens his eyes. The electricity buzzes away, and he craves to feel it again.

At the end of the practice, Ms Rosalind calls him over. “Basilton. Nice work today. Make sure that your solo is ready to perform next practice, okay?”

“I will, thank you,” Baz politely replies, going to follow the rest of his class out of the room; but something makes him stop. The desperation to impress Snow again gnaws on him like an addiction. Because next practice, Snow will be there, watching _only him,_ as he performs one of the most romantic solos in the history of classical music. He can’t afford to make any mistakes. 

He turns back around. “Miss? Will the practice rooms be available to use over the weekend?”

“Yes, Basilton. But don’t burn yourself out with too much practicing, okay?”

“I won’t,” Baz says, flashing her a smile and heading out of the room. 

\----------

Baz lied. After feeling Snow’s gaze on him for all of dinner, he is pulled back to the practice rooms. By Sunday night, Baz has been there for almost the entire weekend – his back aches from sleeping on the floor, his fingers are sore, and he is desperately hungry.

But he just wants the solo to be _perfect._ For Snow, yes, but also just for _himself._ It feels relieving to pour all of his passion into something _other_ than Snow. 

Except it’s dark, and he feels dead. He forces himself to acknowledge the reality of having to sleep in his bed tonight; the side effect of which is seeing Snow. But he can deal with that. Hopefully Snow will be asleep – that way, it’ll be easier for him to sneak in unnoticed.

Once he drags himself upstairs and opens the door to his room, it’s dark and he can’t hear anything, which is a good sign – Snow has to be asleep. Baz allows his shoulders to relax, not bothering to paint on his usual façade of snobbery, and pulls off his shirt to replace it with his usual silk pyjama top, rubbing his hands over his eyes to try and wake himself up slightly. 

“Baz?” a raspy voice from behind him says, thick with sleepiness, and Baz’s heart jumps, hurrying to do up the buttons on his pyjama top in case Snow has his eyes open.

He eventually turns around to face him. “Yes?”

“Where have you _been_ all weekend?” Snow whines, sounding strangely desperate.

If Baz didn’t know any better, it almost sounds as if Simon had missed him. Which obviously is not the case – he’s probably just worried that Baz has been plotting against him all weekend, with his _evil family members,_ or whatever weird shit Snow usually comes up with in his head. In their normal discourse, Baz would mock him for this, but he’s too tired to torment him. He may as well be honest. “I was practicing my solo.”

 _“All_ weekend? Did you even _sleep_ there?”

“That’s what I have to do.” Baz picks up his pyjama trousers, hesitating before deciding to put them on over his boxers. It’s not as if Snow hasn’t seen a boy in shorts before – plus, it’s dark, and the room is illuminated only by faint moonlight. Snow will barely be able to see him.

Yet Baz can feel eyes on him as he changes, causing his cheeks to flush, and he could swear that Snow’s response is almost wistful. “You really care about music, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Baz responds, climbing into bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Yeah, I really do.”

There’s a silence, and Baz turns over to face the wall, ending the conversation, but he can still feel the spark of Snow’s lazy gaze at his back. “Goodnight, Baz,” Snow says, and Baz shuts his eyes tightly, in an attempt to block out the fluttering of his heart.

(It doesn’t work.)

\----------

Today is his solo. When Baz dramatically casts an **Open Sesame** on the doors, he walks directly over to his music stand with his chin held high. He can feel Snow’s eyes following him, and he buzzes from the feeling of his gaze. There is _nothing_ stopping Baz today. 

As he picks up his violin, allowing his eyes to flutter shut, Snow’s image appears in his mind. 

_Simon._ Blue eyes. Blonde curls. He is indestructible; the most powerful magician in all of history. And he is _alive_ – he is so alive, and his eyes are all on Baz. He doesn’t want him to look away.

And so, whilst thinking of him, Baz plays. He breathes through the bow, feeling the vibrations of the music buzz through his fingertips, through his neck, down his spine – and it’s overwhelming. It’s the best performance Baz has ever done. All of the practice, the blood, the emotional agony – it was all worth it. Because right now, he can feel Snow’s magic rippling through the air, and it’s inescapable, grabbing hold of his entire body, until Baz is barely in control, carried by the magic. 

They say that violin in the instrument closest to the human voice… and Baz feels as if his emotions are laid bare through the gentle song of the strings. _“I love you,”_ Baz attempts to cry through the music. And perhaps Snow gets the message – because his magic no longer feels like magic; it feels like something else, too. Baz is lost – he feels high. He feels _alive,_ he feels _euphoric,_ he feels – 

_Crash._ A high-pitched ring floods the room. Baz’s eyes snap open, and the moment is lost. _The feeling of being alive never lasts,_ he muses.

He turns around, to see Simon _bloody_ Snow with his triangle at his feet and his mouth hanging open. Of course, this would happen – Baz’s moment ruined, _yet again,_ by someone who couldn’t care less about music to begin with. 

The rage inside him is uncontainable. Simon begins to speak, and Baz hears something that resembles _“Baz, I’m sorry,”_ but he has no patience to listen to him. He simply grabs his violin, leaving the room without looking back.

Snow _cannot_ be in Orchestra any more. Fuck his extra credit – he can do something else. Baz is _done_ with this.

\----------

As if his day could get any worse, Baz is not even granted a minute alone to calm himself down – because practically as soon as he sits on his bed, Snow comes crashing through the door. 

“Baz, _listen –”_

“Piss off, Snow,” Baz weakly replies, getting up to try and head out of the door, hoping that this can be the end of _whatever this is._ But Snow is typically stubborn, and never backs down. Baz can’t bear to look at him.

He comes closer. “Look, I’m sorry for messing up your solo. But… it’s not _that_ much of a big deal, _right?_ Like, it was only a practice, and you were really good anyway, and you’ll still get loads of extra credit for it.”

Baz turns around, noticing the light-hearted, almost _caring_ look in Snow’s eyes – and it irritates him so much that he finally snaps. “You don’t fucking _get it,_ do you? I’m not like _you,_ Snow… I’m not just doing this for _extra credit._ Can’t you _get_ that? It’s like….” He waves his hands around, desperately trying to grasp the words. “Orchestra is the _one place_ where I can immerse myself in something _else_ other than… it’s somewhere I can _escape.”_

 _“Escape?”_ Snow interrupts. “What do you have to _escape_ from?”

The question thuds around Baz’s head, as he shakes his head in disbelief. _You,_ he wants to scream, _it’s always been you. You’re everywhere I go. I can’t fucking escape from you. Your fingerprints are pressing into my heart so deeply that I can’t breathe._

His thoughts are suffocating. Baz can’t speak. He’s afraid that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop. All he can do is stare at the floor, cheeks burning an unusual shade of red for someone that is half-dead.

Snow finally breaks the silence. “Okay. So you’re annoyed at me. But what are you expecting me to do?”

“Quit Orchestra,” Baz snaps. “You can do something else for extra credit. Just… leave me _alone.”_

Nodding slowly, Snow turns around, “Fine. If that’s what you want.” Baz swears that his voice is cracking, almost as if he’s upset.

Slamming the door behind him, Baz expects to feel relieved. Happy, even. But instead, he just feels _guilt._ Pure, empty guilt.

\----------

Baz allows himself to take a deep exhale before raising his violin to the crook of his neck. The entire class have their eyes on him – more intensely than last time. The lack of Snow’s presence is the elephant in the room, and everyone wants to watch what Baz will do next.

He begins to glide the bow across the strings, almost expecting the solo to be as perfect as it was last time – but something doesn’t feel right. The atmosphere feels empty; there’s no buzz, no feeling, no _magic._ The music once was overwhelming with feeling – yet suddenly, it feels meaningless; empty. There’s no purpose anymore.

Baz drops his violin, not even wincing at the loud thud as it crashes against the floor. He needs _Simon._ He needs him _here._ He can’t play without him anymore. Not after the way he made him feel last practice… as if his heart was beating in the grip of Simon’s hands.

“I have to go,” he announces, rushing out of the room. He has to find Snow. _Simon._

\----------

As Baz bursts into their room, Snow immediately springs up from his desk chair, fists clenched as if ready to fight. Baz would barely even blink if he summoned his sword. 

“What do you want, Baz?” Snow asks, staring down at the floor. Part of Baz aches for Snow to be able to look him in the eyes.

“You need to come back.”

“What?”

Baz sighs, realising how ridiculous he sounds. It was only _yesterday_ that he forced Snow to quit – and now he’s frantically trying to get him to return. “You need to come back to Orchestra.”

Snow scoffs, stepping further away from him. “Oh, and why’s that? Is the entire Orchestra going to _collapse_ without me playing the triangle?”

“Well, _no,_ it’s just –”

“Look,” Snow interrupts. “I don’t know what you’re plotting, but _no._ I’m not coming back.”

Baz grows desperate. “But, my solo –”

“Why would you need _me_ for your solo?”

 _Because I love you,_ Baz’s mind screams. _Because you are the entire melody of a song, and I am just one key. You are pure magic._ But his body defies his mind, and sends him running back down to the practice rooms. He finds his violin from the floor where it was dropped, and plays until his fingers bleed and a scream itches in the back of his throat. 

\----------

Just as Baz feels as if he will cry from the mixture of heartache, exhaustion and frustration bubbling in his mind, the door swings open. Simon Snow is stood there, invading his space _yet again,_ with a glint of determination in his eye that Baz is drawn to. He can’t look away.

“Baz,” Snow breathes, and Baz straightens up his back, in an attempt to appear emotionless. (It doesn’t work.)

“Snow. What are you doing here?” The coldness of his voice almost frightens him – he can turn on his persona like a switch. 

Snow responds nervously, and Baz despises himself for it. “Um. I just… I spoke to some people from Orchestra. They told me about what happened.”

“So, what?” Baz frowns at Snow, gritting his teeth. “You thought you would come and make fun of me for being a failure?”

“No,” Snow quickly interrupts, and Baz is taken aback. But he doesn’t let his guard down too quickly – that would be naïve. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s just… I was kind of… _wondering_ whether that was why you wanted me back in Orchestra. Because maybe… _I don’t know._ It’s probably stupid, but I thought that maybe you just couldn’t perform without me.”

Baz feels naked – as if Snow has clawed his way into his heart, laying his secrets bare. _Surely_ Snow must know about his feelings now. There’s no way that he can’t. 

In a desperate attempt to salvage the persona he has left, Baz lets out a half-hearted laugh. “It can be nice to show off to my enemy. Gives me more purpose.”

“Stop it,” Snow snaps, and Baz stops talking, raising his eyebrows in surprise. 

Snow steps closer to him, and Baz can feel his magic dancing on his skin. “Stop saying things like that. I know… I just _know_ that you don’t feel like that. You don’t hate me. Because… the other day, when I watched you perform that _solo…_ it was as if all of the air had been knocked out of me. I couldn’t stop watching you, even when I tried. Magic was just flowing out of me. I’ve never felt anything like it.” He gulps thickly, and Baz traces his jawline with his eyes. “And, yeah, maybe I _did_ just join Orchestra for the extra credit. Because I lost a bet with Penny. But… when you performed… you _moved me,_ Baz. And I know you could feel it too.” 

He steps closer, and Baz feels light-headed. This can’t be real. It has to be another one of his stupid, wistful dreams. But Baz can feel Snow’s breath against his skin, and it’s _real_ as he closes the silence between them, whispering, “I’m not letting you escape from me anymore.”

And then, with shaking hands, Snow takes Baz’s violin, setting it down carefully on the table next to them, and then they’re _kissing,_ and Baz’s hands are pressed desperately against Simon’s cheeks, and for someone half-dead, he’s never felt so _warm._

Baz is enlightened to the meaning of the symphonies that he’s studied intently but never truly understood. Before, all he heard was silence, but now he can hear it all in his head, _feel_ it running down his spine, like a full orchestra; Simon’s fingers drumming against Baz’s back are loud, loud, loud; a piano delicately plays in his head, like the romantic lullabies playing on his record player during long, pining summers; drums are thrashing at the beat of his heart; the strings are incurably playing like his precious violin. And Snow… _Simon…_ he’s the composer of it all. The genius at work. 

_This is music._

Simon pulls away, and Baz’s heart sinks, afraid of rejection. But he cups Baz’s cheeks, smiling at him sweetly, and Baz can’t help but grin, heart continuing to thud in his chest.

“So, in case this didn’t make it clear enough,” Simon laughs, kissing Baz quickly on the nose. “Yes. I’ll come back to Orchestra.”

“Good,” Baz smiles, leaning into Simon’s hand and looking at him with wistful, tired eyes. “Just don’t drop your triangle again.”

He smirks, and then kisses Baz again, and again, and again, lifting him up on top of the piano and laughing when his feet clumsily press against the keys. 

Baz’s heart skips to the gentle beat of Simon’s heart all night, music buzzing at every patch of his skin that Simon’s lips meet.

Perhaps failing Magic Words was the best thing Simon ever did, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This idea has been playing on my mind since March, but since my exams I've been suffering with a rather extreme case of writer's block D: I finally forced myself to break the block and get this fic out into the world, so I'd love to know what you all think! :)
> 
> P.S. My main inspirations for this fic were the song Symphony by Clean Bandit and the poem The Kiss by Anne Sexton, and I loosely drew on the incredible film Whiplash to write Baz's passion for music in the most realistic way I could. <3
> 
> tumblr: https://rainbowbaz.tumblr.com/


End file.
